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 Nov 2022 Nat Lipstadt
Medusa
{inspired by Krista Dellefemine}


I see you carry a heavy metal soul
It must sound like thunder
When the rain comes

You are visible to some, like me
You must know, we walk a long road
Never to get home, but it's alright

Some paths don't lead nowhere
To go on wandering is no curse

I see you carry a heavy metal
Soul

~
https://youtu.be/T_kcquc2fbc
The full film, 1946, "La Belle et La Bete"
By Jean Cocteau

Best part is about 30 minutes into the film.
One time
You took me horseback riding
With a guide
And rented horses
I focused on how romantic it was
But I couldn't help but notice
How much that horse
You rode
Hated you
☕️☕️☕️

Awake still, a few hours
before sunrise…and yet,
every morning, rising early
is a hard habit to break.

Dry thirsty mouth awaits
the morning’s initial cup
of steaming fulfillment.
caffeine's instantaneous effect
goes beyond waking hours,
working it’s way through the
day’s unfolding inspirations,
born from uncertainty, as
well as predictability, and
through deep concentration
and cups of hot refills.

One gets rapt in the hours of the
day…regardless if it’s a win or lose,
five-thirty…six pm approaches...
Mooned…or moonless, night comes,
to pause, or otherwise…our bodies,
our circumstances, the horizon speak:

‘Enough’ is a decision arrived at,
the dark sky leads to a new dawn,
to new journeys, once again, to be
enriched, inspired, and sustained by
countless cups of fresh coffee.

So, if it’s already four, or five am,
no more dilly-dallying..get up now,
have your first cup…take the first sip,
be driven………….be inspired.
☕️☕️☕️

sally b

©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
I deserve good things
Like kettle corn
And the promise that
Seeds I spit will grow
Laying shoulder blade
To shoulder blade
sometimes
Summers on top of
Your comforter
And comfort
In knowing
The heavy softness
Of knowing
You
It’s 8 am
And I was writing
Poems in my sleep
Perfect prose
If every
Mundane minute
Was at least
A year
Coffee stirrers
And reaching
Into the glove box
For ribbon

8 am and it’s
The third morning I’ve had today
A misty breeze…the birds’ songs,
the aroma of coffee brewing,
easily disrupt a new day’s
diaphanous veil of quietude,
to give way to morning rituals.

Stubborn, newly-woken arthritic
hands start to stretch...it takes
longer now for tight fingers to
uncurl or straighten each sunrise.

Palms open and close gently, and
then abruptly...fingers move in a
circle…clockwise, counter clockwise,
blood must flow, even when they hurt.

Some of these hands have worked
through water and soil…through
pen and paper…through rain and
sun…building, creating, moulding,
withstanding fire, getting burned,
toughened by time…..honed by
nature’s elements, and life's
many implements.

Veins are protruding,
knuckles are lined and wrinkled,
swelling with the many sketches
of life…good and bad stories,
lessons from daily existence.

It's sad, these wayward fingers
will one day…care no longer,
will turn stiff and cold...their
untold stories, kept forever.



sally b

Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 17, 2022
No grave could contain him.
He will always be young
in the classroom
waving an answer
like a greeting.

Buried alive -
alive he is
by the river
skimming stones down
the path of the sun.

When the tumor on the hillside
burst and the black blood
of coal drowned him,
he ran forever
with his sheepdog leaping
for sticks, tumbling together
in windblown abandon.

I gulp back tears
because of a notion of manliness.
After the October rain
the ****-heap sagged
its greedy coalowner's belly.

He drew a picture of a wren,
his favourite bird for frailty
and determination. His eyes gleamed
as gorse-flowers do now
above the village.

His scream was stopped mid-flight.
Black and blemished
with the hill's sickness
he must have been,
like a child collier
dragged out of one of Bute's mines-
a limp statistic.

There he is, climbing a tree,
mimicking an ape, calling out names
at classmates. Laughs springing
down the *****. My wife hears them
her ears attuned as a ewe's in lambing,
and I try to foster the inscription
away from it's stubborn stone.
Aberfan disaster, October 21st 1966
The heading, an inscription on a child's grave.
Poem's by Mike Jenkins ( a great Welsh poet )
"Laughter tangled in thorns".
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